


Whiskey and Sympathy

by Heavyheadedgal



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/F, Grief/Mourning, Mac needs a vacation, Phryne Fisher is an Awesome Friend, angsty angst, birthday fic, bittersweet hurt/comfort, closeted relationships, sorry about the terrible title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9892067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/pseuds/Heavyheadedgal
Summary: Phryne comforts Mac after the events of Death by Miss Adventure. A birthday fic for Fire_Sign.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Fire_Sign! Hope you have a wonderful (and angst-free!) day! <3

Phryne trotted down the stairs, wrapping her white fur stole around her shoulders. She paused in front of the hall mirror, checked her makeup one final time, and stretched her hands into her white kid gloves. She smiled with a thrill of anticipation. Antonio was an Italian who ticked all of Phryne’s boxes: young, bohemian, and exceedingly good-looking. Notorious for his experimental modernist poetry, and autobiographies thinly disguised as controversial novels, he had travelled to Australia to avoid the fallout of a minor scandal. Phryne had had her eye on him for week; tonight was to be the first of many delightful assignations.

“Don’t wait up, Mr. B.” she said, adjusting her hat. “I have a feeling I’ll be dreadfully late. In fact, I may not return home till morning.”

Mr. Butler knew enough not to inquire further. “Very good miss,” he said. He moved to the telephone as it began to ring.

“I’m not here!” Phryne hissed, hurrying to the door.

“Miss, I think you’ll want to take this call.” Mr. Butler looked at her apologetically, hand on the receiver. “It’s Dr. Macmillan.”

“Mac?” said Phryne, taking the phone. “Is everything alright?”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, a muffled rustling sound. Phryne frowned. Then she realized—it was sniffling. Mac was crying.

“Phryne...”

She didn’t need to hear any more. “I’m on my way,” she said.

Phryne hung up the phone and slipped out of her high heels. Shoes in one hand, fur in another, she dashed back up the stairs.

“Dot!” she called out. “Pack an overnight bag! Ring the Plaza, would you, Mr. B., and convey my apologies to Signior Antonio.”

“Very good miss. What reason shall I give?”

Phryne paused on the landing.

“Family emergency,” she replied.

                                                                                                                               ******

When Mac opened her door, Phryne gasped.

“Oh god, you look like hell, Mac!”

Normally as fastidious as Phryne when it came to her appearance, Mac stood before her dishevelled and unkempt. Her hair escaped from a loose braid that hung down her back. Her braces dangled from the waistband of her moleskin trousers. Her shirt was wrinkled, the tail hanging out the back.

“Nice to see you too, mate.” Mac giggled, clearly worse for whisky. She hiccupped, which turned into a silent sob, her hand over her mouth.

Phryne dumped her bag and hamper on the floor and gathered Mac into her arms.

“Oh Christ,” Mac grumbled into Phryne’s shoulder. “You had a date, didn’t you?”

“Nonsense. Whatever gave you that idea?” Phryne shrugged casually. Mac glared at her.

“You’re wearing Jicky. You always wear Jicky when you’re planning a seduction.”

“Perhaps I was. It would do wonders for your mood.” Phryne winked broadly.

Mac laughed weakly, sniffing and wiping her nose. “Don’t be absurd. I shouldn’t have called. I’ve ruined your evening.”

Phryne took Mac’s hands. “Dearest, there’s no place I’d rather be.”

“More fool you.”

“Enough of that. Now come sit down and talk to me.” She held Mac’s arm and drew her over to the sofa.

As soon as they settled, Mac burst into tears. Phryne said nothing, simply held her friend. Mac’s head was pillowed in Phryne’s lap; Phryne stroked her hair as she cried herself out.

 It had been a few weeks since Daisy’s funeral. Phryne had barely seen Mac in that time. Mac’s innate work ethic drove her harder than ever. Now that she was no longer visiting Gaskin’s factory, she threw herself into teaching at the university, and worked long shifts at the Women’s Hospital. Phone calls went unanswered, invitations refused. Looking around Mac’s house, it was clear she was not coping. The bungalow was a mess, like its owner. The ashtrays were full to overflowing. Judging by the empty bottles scattered about, Mac had been subsisting on a mostly liquid diet. Mac had always been an intensely private person, and did not appreciate interference in her life. Phryne had wanted to give Mac privacy to grieve. It seemed she had only left her friend to drown.

But she was here now. She wouldn’t abandon Mac again.

Mac sat up with a sigh, her face tearstained, but calmer. Phryne rubbed her back. “I think I know just what you need,” she said.

 

                                                                                                                                  ****    

Mac groaned as she lay back in the steaming, lavender-scented bathwater. Phryne knelt behind Mac and rolled up her sleeves. She lathered Mac’s hair and scratched gently at her scalp. Mac hummed in contentment.

“This reminds me of Paris. Do you remember...?”

“Of course,” Phryne laughed. “Sharing the bath to save water. Boiling kettles on the hob, and that terrible rusty tub leaking all over the kitchen.” Phryne’s voice was soft, remembering their draughty Paris lodgings. Mac had done something like this for her, in those awful days after she had left René.

“We lived in some terrible dumps, didn’t we?”

“Somehow I didn’t mind when it was in Paris.”

She rinsed Mac’s hair and scrubbed her back. Mac’s shoulders had relaxed, her face less worn. Phryne decided to take a chance. “I wish I could have met Daisy.”

Mac nodded. “So do I. You would have liked her. She was…” Mac paused, struggling for words. “So _bright_. Passionate. She wasn’t going to stay in that factory. She wanted to write, work for a newspaper. Determined as hell.” After a moment, Mac added, “She pursued me, in fact.”

“Really?” Phryne was surprised. Mac had always prided herself on taking the initiative in her relationships.

“Flirted with me in the middle of the factory floor, bold as brass.” Mac smiled at the memory. “She was so young. Didn’t know enough to be careful. And I fell head over heels, like an old fool.” Her smile faltered. “I should have…” She scrubbed her face hard, tears rolling slowly down her nose. “I should have told her no.”

“Oh Mac---“  Phryne put a hand to Mac’s cheek; but she leaned away, hunching forward over her knees.

“I’m alright,” she said tightly, sniffing hard.

At a loss, Phryne opted for the direct approach. “Why didn’t you tell me about Daisy?” She couldn’t help feeling confused, and a little hurt, at being shut out.

Mac stared straight ahead, for a long moment. Then she said, “Plausible deniability.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my closest friend, Phryne, and you have influence. I was already under scrutiny for promoting family planning to the workers. If people started to talk...I’d need you to vouch for my character. You couldn’t do that if I’m seen bringing her to your parties. The less you knew, the more help you could be if I needed you.”

“Mac, you know I’d do whatever necessary, say anything---“

“I can’t ask you to lie for me, Phryne. I won’t put you in that position. The fewer lies I have to maintain, the easier it is to preserve them.”

Phryne bit her lip, smothering a sense of helpless anger at the world. It was infuriating, but she couldn’t argue with Mac’s reasoning. Discretion (hateful word!), even with those closest to her, was a necessary part of Mac’s life.

Phryne leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Mac’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“Don’t. You’re getting wet.”

“I don’t care.”

                                                                                                                                ****

“What on earth are you up to now?”

Phryne crawled out from inside the oven, where she had been trying, unsuccessfully, to light the pilot flame.

“Cooking!” she replied brightly.

Mac stood in soft flannel men’s pyjamas, her wet hair braided into plaits. Her arms were folded, and she eyed Phryne sceptically. She looked so like the Collingwood street kid she had once been, it made Phryne’s throat tight with memories.

“When’s the last time you cooked anything?” Mac said dryly.

Phryne thought a moment. “March 1924. Or possibly April.”

“Right,” said Mac, holding out her hand. “Hand those over.”

Phryne gave her the kitchen matches with a playful pout. “I’m perfectly capable of warming a cold pie in the oven. Mr. B packed us a lovely hamper.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I can still taste your attempt at _moules marinières_.”

“It’s not my fault you have an unsophisticated palate,” Phryne replied loftily. Mac’s renewed sense of humor was a good sign. Phryne was willing to let the insult to her culinary skills go this once. At that moment, the phone rang. “You lay the table, I’ll answer this,” she said, moving towards the hall.

Mac was unpacking the hamper when Phryne returned. Soft bread, hard cheese, pickles, and a jar of chutney crowded the kitchen table.

“Who was that?”

“The hospital.” Phryne replied nonchalantly. “I told them you’re dreadfully ill with influenza and will need two weeks to recover. Possibly three.”

Mac gaped. “Three weeks? I can possibly take that much time away from work. I have patients, classes—“

“Well, you don’t have a choice.” Phryne interrupted sternly, hands on her hips. “Doctor Fisher’s orders.”

Mac narrowed her eyes stubbornly. “You weren’t even a nurse in the war. You drove an ambulance.”

Phryne stepped closer, and gently held Mac’s face in her hands. “Darling. You’ve worked yourself half to death since Daisy died. You need to rest. Three weeks at my seaside villa is prescribed.”

Mac smiled tearfully, shaking her head. “What would I do without a friend like you?”

Phryne laced her fingers behind Mac’s neck. “And what kind of friend is that?”

 “One who is filthy rich,” Mac said wryly.

Phryne laughed and kissed her cheek.

 


End file.
